


After Hours

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bartenders, Country Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We danced out there on that empty hardwood floor.  The chairs were up and the lights turned way down low.  The music played, we held each other close, and we danced.  Inspired by Brad Paisley’s "We Danced."  Apparently country music ~does things to my writer’s brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Joan.

"Sorry, we're closed."

Jensen doesn't need to look up to know that the guy who just walked in isn't turning right around and leaving. Annoyingly, the guy hovers under the little LED twinkle bulbs that are strung over the door, the bar's most significant source of lighting. Instead of turning and trying to shoo the guy out, Jensen goes about his closing business, piling every seat but the bar-stools on top of tables so he can sweep the floor. When he can still see the guy out of the corner of his eye, he leans on the broom and says, "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah, sorry," the guy says, shoulders hunched like he wants to shrink the amount of space he takes up. It doesn't work. "I think I left my credit card at the bar earlier. I forgot to close out my tab."

Jensen's brain skips over the implied question while he checks out the customer. A perfect shoulder-to-hip ratio, his body strong and tapered. Long legs wrapped in denim, worn at the knees, and the pointed tips of brown cowboy boots peeking out at the bottom. A maroon button down open at the neck, half tucked into his leather belt. His appearance is slightly more rugged than Jensen’s colorless ensemble of a black t-shirt and soft gray slacks—he doesn’t run a _dive_ bar; his place has a little class—but the outfit hangs well on this guy’s frame.

From the looks of it, the guy’s had a long night, eyes shadowed and hair pushed behind his ears. Jensen remembers him from earlier; recalls a glimpse of that rich maroon fabric and long brown hair, and pausing for a second look. The guy's seriously attractive, that much is obvious, but it's been a while since Jensen was swayed by nothing more than a pretty face.

"I've got a couple of cards at the register. What's the last name?"

"Padalecki."

Jensen grins. "Won't be more than one of those back here." He steps behind the bar, shakers and glasses all cleaned and lined up in neat rows. Sweeping the floor is the last thing on Jensen's list for the night, but he's not in a rush. The Double A is practically Jensen's whole life—nothing waiting for him at his apartment besides Oscar, and his crossed eyed Siamese wouldn't care if Jensen stayed out all night, so long as there's plenty of food in Oscar's bowl.

Jensen takes a stab at the full name. "Jared Padalecki?" The guy nods. "Do you have some ID?"

"Sure." After rooting around in his back pocket, Jared pulls out a Texas drivers license under the same name and brings it up to the bar. Instead of leaning over the oak—once polished but now pitted and worn from two years of steady business, and more beautiful for it—Jared all but collapses onto one of the saddle stools.

Under the guise of matching the license to the Visa, Jensen ponders the tall guy slumped over his bar like he'd sag to the floor without the support. Not a rare sight, but this Jared guy seems more devastated than most, as if he's gone three rounds with the last twenty four hours and come out on the losing end.

Jensen may be a competent bartender, but situations like these are why he puts up with customers who've had one too many, or think they know more about beer than he does; why he puts up with earning a few bad tips and making chick drinks more often than he'd like. In his head, Jensen refers to the Double A as his social psychology practice. Without much prodding at all, Jensen can get almost anyone talking about what's bothering them, and he does his very best to make sure everyone leaves with less weight on their shoulders than they walked in with.

And his parents said he'd never use his psych degree.

Setting the cards on the bar, Jensen takes a long look at Jared's face. His eyes are focused somewhere much further off than the shelves of liquor bottles behind Jensen.

"Are you doing alright?" Jensen asks when Jared doesn't take his license back right away.

"Just been a long night," Jared says without much feeling.

"Yeah? Where'd you go?"

The guy sighs. "Some club downtown that my buddies were all into." His laugh is anything but humorous. "But I didn't have my credit card so I could only afford one drink, and none of my pals stuck around the bar for very long."

"They ditched you?"

"Not at the club. They just kind of scattered off to dance or hook up. I don't even know."

"And these are good friends?"

"I guess not," Jared says after a few seconds' consideration. "I'm sorry, man. You said you were closed. I can get out of here."

The way Jared doesn't move an inch when he offers, says a lot.

"It's fine. You want a drink?" Jensen asks. "I mean, I haven't closed your tab yet..."

Finally picking up his credit card, Jared smiles, and it adds to his appeal. "Yeah? You mind adding a Coke to it?"

Jensen lifts the drink nozzle out of the pitcher of soda water it was sitting in and shakes it off. With a drink in front of him, Jared’s eyes get a little brighter and he sets his elbows on the bar.

"I’m not keeping you here?"

"I’m one of the owners,” Jensen tells him, “so I’m here almost all the time. I don’t mind, though."

"Really? This is your bar?"

"One of my buddies bought it a couple of years ago, and he brought me in as a partner since he’d never bartended before in his life." Jensen doesn’t mind the small talk. After the night Jared’s had, being ditched and overlooked, he probably enjoys having someone’s undivided attention. "Now he does all the books and leaves the little stuff to me."

"Sounds like a good deal."

"Do you work?" Jensen asks, pouring himself a glass of ice water.

Jared’s fingers slip around his glass, fingertips wet with the condensation. "I’m actually in my last year of college. Drafting and design. But I’ve been working part-time at a local firm, and tonight, I was out with some of the guys I’ve met there. Probably the first and last time, I guess," he adds with a twist of his lips that’s less bitter than Jensen expected.

"Design, huh? That’s impressive."

"You think so?" Jared asks.

Jensen nods. "Definitely. My nephew draws better stick figures than I do, and he’s five."

"I’ve just always had a knack for drawing, picturing things in my head." Jared taps his wet fingers on the bar. "When I was a kid, I used to steal my dad’s nice graph paper and sketch out these ridiculous mansions. They’d have seven floors, a dozen bedrooms, and huge, circular windows everywhere. I’d even draw in the furniture. Then I learned dimensions and scale when I was in elementary school, and I guess you could say the rest is history."

"Like I said, it’s impressive. I was always more of a book-nerd," Jensen tells Jared, rewarded with a fond smile. "When I wasn’t swimming—I was on a team by the time I was ten because my parents insisted we be involved in sports—I was reading something. I loved all the different characters, and seeing how people would act in all these crazy situations."

"So, did you end up becoming a writer?"

Jensen shakes his head. "Nope, I have a Master’s degree in Psychology."

"Wow, seriously? That’s awesome," Jared says, his stare carrying extra weight when he looks Jensen up and down. "How’d you end up with a bar then?"

"It’s a long story."

Jared leans a little closer. "I’ve got time."

They get a little lost in conversation, but Jensen’s not looking for a way out. Jared’s handsome face wouldn’t have been enough to light the fire of attraction, but as Jared finishes one soda and passes the glass back to Jensen for more, Jensen realizes they’ve been talking for nearly forty-five minutes without any awkward silences. They haven’t touched on any serious topics, but they’ve traded stories back and forth, smiles hidden in the corners of their lips.

"Why would you even agree to go clubbing when you don’t like to dance?" Jensen asks as he hands Jared a full Coke.

Jared laughs. "I figured that in a huge crowd of guys, no one would notice how badly I was dancing! And I’ve been studying my ass off lately, so I thought I deserved a night out."

"You’ll have better luck next time. Just make sure you have a say in the plans, so you don’t end up moping at my bar after closing time again."

"Hey, I’m not exactly having a bad time right now," Jared says, voice trailing off as if he hadn’t expected to blurt that out. "Thanks for letting me stick around."

"Sure, man. It helped me wind down too." Jensen walks around the bar and takes the stool next to Jared's. "It's tough to go home and be alone after a busy night like tonight."

"No one's waiting for you?"

The extra emphasis on Jared's question goes slightly beyond casual. Words aren't the only things being traded back and forth; Jensen's been lucky enough to catch a few deeper glances sent his way. Either Jared's been checking him out for the last twenty minutes or he's working out a puzzle and Jensen's face is a big clue.

"Just a cat and three DVR'ed episodes of Hell's Kitchen."

"So you're a cat guy, huh?"

"That's kind of a personal question."

"Too deep for our first conversation?" Jared asks, his mouth flirting with another grin. "Guess I should stick to the basics."

"Now that you mention it," Jensen says, "I think we're a little past basics. Feels like I know all about you. Jared Padalecki: designer of great things, middle-child, and horrible dancer."

"Man, you just had to bring up the dancing again, didn't you?"

Jensen returns the quip with equal humor, his expression pointed and mockingly professional. "I can see that it's something that affects you deeply."

"Says the bar-shrink," Jared says, his smiling softening so Jensen won't read it as an insult. "Can I see your degree?"

"Sure. I keep it mounted and framed in the back office for doubters. But you're only allowed to see it if you're a paying client."

"I have a tab."

Jensen smirks. "An _open_ tab. You haven't actually paid me yet."

Angling his head down towards the bar to hide his laugh, Jared says, "Before I pay you, I want to know what kind of therapy I can expect. For instance, how would you help me get over my debilitating lack of dance skills?"

It doesn't take much for the idea to form in Jensen's head; he's been searching out an excuse to get closer to Jared since they started talking. Leaning forward into Jared space, and certain that his tone is low and beguiling, he whispers, "There's really only one way I can think of to help you."

Jared's pupils dilate and Jensen uses the moment of shock, intention inscribed in the heavy look Jared's giving him, and yanks Jared off of his bar-stool.

"I’m gonna have to teach you."

The alternative rock being pumped out at a low volume over Jensen’s speakers isn’t conducive to dancing—he’d switched channels while he cleaned—but Jensen fixes that with a few quick clicks of the system remote. A second later, they’re surrounded by a low, pulsing beat that goes right to Jensen’s hips. He hasn’t gone out dancing in months, and the urge acts like a drug quickening his blood.

"You really don’t have to do this," Jared insists. His cheeks are rounded and flushed, grin ever-present, so Jensen can’t take his protests seriously. "You don’t need to see me dance."

"I really do," Jensen says, "for diagnostic purposes, of course." With the chairs up, there’s plenty of open space in the bar. Jared’s arm is limp as Jensen spins him around. Facing one another, Jensen matches Jared’s smile with one of his own. "I need to see what I'm working with."

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Just start moving," Jensen teases, half-serious. “Find one beat in the song and roll your hips to it."

Jensen’s instructions are easier spoken than followed, apparently. He watches Jared sway into the rhythm, only the _rhythm_ is going in one direction and Jared’s body is gyrating off in another. He’s bound to be a little awkward, putting on a show for a near-stranger, but Jared keeps moving until Jensen steps fully into Jared’s space and holds his hips still.

"See?" Jared’s pout is adorable. "I’m a terrible dancer, aren’t I?"

Stifling his laugh, Jensen says, "You’re giving me a lot to work with."

"That’s a nice way of saying that I suck."

"New plan." Jensen keeps his hands at Jared’s waist, squeezing lightly into muscle to get Jared to meet his eyes. "I’ll dance, and you try to move with me."

There’s a moment when Jensen thinks Jared’s going to throw up his hands and back away, but the hesitation in his eyes is fleeting. Jared allows himself to be drawn a little closer, and Jensen schools his expression into something that resembles encouragement. It’s difficult getting Jared to mirror his steps at first. Jared’s feet stomp heavily, boot heels clacking on the hardwood floor. There’s no _want_ or instinct in his moves—too much thinking getting in the way of his rhythm—so Jensen decides to test out another approach.

"Hang on," Jensen says. "Just wait for it."

A new song fills the room, a heavier _thump-thump-thump_ than the last one. Jensen’s left dancing on his own for a minute, swiveling his lower body and pinning Jared with a heated gaze. This time, he’s going beyond a simple _lesson_ ; he’s trying to entice Jared to dance with him, the same way Jensen would seduce someone irresistible in a club.

"You’ve got to _want_ to dance with me," Jensen says, whispering below the volume of the music. Jared picks up on it, sliding his taller frame against Jensen’s chest so that he has no choice but to move when Jensen does.

From there, the lesson goes more smoothly. Leaving Jensen to guide him, Jared’s body is pliant in Jensen’s arms. He’s warm, solid at the core, and staring down the length of his tipped nose directly into Jensen’s eyes. The steps come more easily, and Jared’s moves begin to meld with Jensen’s.

Though the temperature between them is climbing, Jensen gets goosebumps when Jared’s hand slides up to catch his elbow, and he’s overtaken by a full-body shiver that's impossible for Jared to miss. He can see that Jared’s eyes are warm like melted caramel, hair falling over his temple. Jensen reaches up to brush it away without thinking; as soon as his fingers touch Jared’s skin, the world goes still.

Their eyes lock—a warning—seconds before Jensen pushes up on his toes, erasing the extra inches between them, and kisses Jared. He expects chaste, unyielding lips to begin with, but Jared's mouth is already parted, testing and trying the pressure of Jensen’s lips against his.

A breath is caught and gently returned, neither of them in a hurry to separate and question what's happening. At least, Jensen has no intention of pulling away. He wouldn't know what to say and, right now, he's letting his lips do all the talking.

They dance through the kiss, bodies swaying while their lips are controlled by more basic instincts. With a gentle hand, Jared tilts Jensen's jaw and the kiss instantly takes on a deeper purpose, everything more intense. When Jensen needs to breathe, he can't bring himself to lean away; he ends up exhaling raggedly against the corner of Jared's mouth, drawing air in through his nose in order to dive back into the kiss as quickly as possible.

Jared's smooth cheek is warm under Jensen's palm. His thumb finds a dimple and strokes across it, coming down to the corner of Jared's lips. The dim light tints Jared’s cheekbones; just another part of Jared’s body Jensen wants to be better acquainted with. Everything about Jared is captivating, and Jensen’s never gotten so caught up, so quickly.

Jensen’s brain is processing exclusively in sentimental metaphors at this point, so he decides to take a step back. Jared’s eyes open slowly, lips free to unfold into a smile.

"Damn, you’re a good teacher," Jared teases, and they both crack up in fits of laughter in the middle of the floor.

The music continues to play, Jensen’s hips finding the beat instinctively. Coming back together, Jared follows his lead—the way he was just taught—and sways in the circle made by their arms. Jensen has one arm swung over Jared’s shoulder, palm wide at the base of Jared’s neck, and the other low and tight around his hips. There’s a fine sheen of sweat across Jared’s forehead, making his skin shine in the low light; Jared’s fingers squeeze and release around Jensen’s waist. His hips grind deliberately against Jensen’s, another symptom of his obvious arousal. Jensen’s no better off with a sticky throat and a heavy flush, and his cock is far too interested in the friction it’s been getting.

"Jesus, I’ve never—" Jared stammers, breath hitting Jensen’s cheeks. "I want you so much right now."

Jensen grins. He’s about to tell Jared that the feeling’s mutual—or kiss him again, depending on which impulse his lips receive first—when Jared drops his head, averting his eyes, and yanks himself away.

"I don’t usually—" Jared begins to say, then detours to the bar and grabs his cards, stuffing them in his back pocket without removing his wallet. He stops. "Shit. You haven’t closed my tab yet."

Jensen waves him off automatically. "It’s on me. Hey, Jared?" he calls when Jared steps haltingly towards the door. "You don't have to leave."

"I didn’t mean to keep you this late," Jared says, in no way an explanation for his sudden haste. "Seriously though, I had a great time. I just—I’m sorry, this is crazy."

It takes a moment for Jensen’s mouth to catch up with his brain. "What’s so crazy that you’re about to run out on me?"

"Jensen"—it’s the first time Jared’s said his name—"I’m having a little trouble controlling myself right now, and if I don’t leave, I’m going to ask you something that’s so far past _normal_ for me. You and me, well, I really want there to be a _you and me_ , but I’m sure you’re thinking it’s too soon to jump into something with me, even though you’re the most amazing guy I’ve ever met."

"Did I say it was too soon?" Jensen asks, stepping between Jared and the door, and cutting Jared’s ramble off. Jared won’t meet his eyes; they're focused somewhere over Jensen's head. "Jared, I’ve never..." What he wants to say is complicated, and yet the most simple idea of all. He settles for taking a breath and telling Jared, "I’m not ready to let tonight end."

"Oh—" The rest of Jared’s thought hangs in mid-air for a minute before he looks back down at Jensen and grins. "In that case, I think you should take me home with you."

~~~

In the morning, there’s plenty of empty space in Jensen’s bed, and Jared is already gone.

Jensen smiles to himself as he lies back on his pillow, stretching as the numbers on the bedside clock pass 10:00 a.m. He feels satisfied down to his bones, a warm ache throughout his body that makes it easy for Jensen to roll over and curl around a fluffy fold of his down comforter.

It's been a while since he felt this way. Jensen's no stranger to hookups and fulfilling sex, but he woke up with a grin on his face this morning, and from the way his cheek muscles feel overworked, he'd smiled in his sleep. He and Jared hadn't gone all the way—and Jensen mentally smacks himself upside the head for thing of it in _those_ terms—but they'd devoured one another with an enthusiasm that went beyond the few hours they'd known each other.

Given lips to kiss, hands to touch, and firm bodies to press together from head-to-toe, they'd ground their orgasms out, rolling with and sinking into one another as they tangled in soft sheets and lengthy kisses.

Silently inviting Jared to stay the night, Jensen had rolled over onto the right side of the bed, leaving Jared, and his long limbs, plenty of room. But Jared took all that space as an invitation to curl up at Jensen’s back, a hand on his waist letting Jensen know he wasn’t going anywhere. Jared's chest rose and fell in a slow cadence behind Jensen, skin brushing every so often—a perfect way to fall asleep.

Warmth seeps in throughout Jensen's body; he's got a grin on his face and more than one pleasant memory from the last few hours. The only thing he’s missing is Jared buried under the comforter with him.

Jared had an early morning class; he made sure Jensen knew that before they'd fallen asleep last night. He’d said it with clear regret, groaning and rolling forward to bury his face between the pillow and Jensen's shoulder blade.

Jensen startles a bit when his cellphone beeps over on the nightstand. The majority of his friends and family know he's rarely up before noon—the Double A doesn't open until five—but Jensen leans over and feels around for his iPhone anyway. Seeing _Jared Padalecki_ pop up on the display draws his smile back out. Jared had obviously programmed his number before he left this morning. Jensen feels a phantom tingle, a whisper of lips, high on his right cheek—maybe the kiss Jared gave him right before he left—as he reads Jared’s text.

Another dance lesson tonight?

No one’s around to mock Jensen’s ridiculously goofy smile. He sits back into his pillows, thumbs typing out a quick reply.

 _Ready to test your new skills? I can have someone close for me._

He only has to wait a minute for Jared’s response. Jensen pictures him in class, texting stealthily while the professor isn’t looking.

 _What time are you free?_

 _Candace will be in at 10. Meet me at the bar?_

 _I’ll be there! Gotta get back to class b4 my prof catches me. See u soon, Jensen :)_

He curls up again with his phone, reading back through Jared’s texts and picturing himself dancing with Jared in a mass of bodies, eyes only for each other. But soon, he’s drifting back into a drowsy, happy haze. Perfectly content to get a few more hours of sleep, Jensen closes his eyes. After all, he’s got a date with Jared, and if Jensen gets what he wants, it’s going to be another late night.

 

FIN.


End file.
